


[another untitled fic, wow, amazing, I promise these will have titles eventually]

by TarvaBaggins



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29566014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarvaBaggins/pseuds/TarvaBaggins
Summary: It’s all fun and games until someone uses blood as warpaint.(Another not-super-angsty fic.  What's gotten into me??)
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion & Túrin Turambar
Kudos: 1





	[another untitled fic, wow, amazing, I promise these will have titles eventually]

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime during the first couple of months after Beleg arrived at Bar-en-Danwedh.
> 
> Feral Beleg is the best Beleg.

They hadn’t even had a full day between this fight and the last. Beleg hadn’t had time to make new arrows to replace the ones he hadn’t been able to salvage from yesterday evening, and of course he had no time now to look for Dailir, which as always had been the first arrow he had loosed in the battle.

Ground fighting was so messy though…messy, and brutal, and…this was his last arrow, though. He drew it back, froze on his target for a fraction of a second, and let it fly. The orc whose neck it buried itself in to half its length fell like a stone, snapping the shaft.

 _Rhaich!_ Nothing else for it then. Beleg reluctantly placed Belthronding in a crook of the tree branch where it would be safe before dropping down onto the snow-dusted ground. Túrin, only a few yards away, glanced over and grinned as Beleg drew Anglachel and spun it in wide circles through the air, the blade chiming with silver musical tones, its already-shining edges glowing brighter yet as he murmured a lilting chant.

A flash of movement to his right. He turned, and with a quick twist of his wrist the sword-tip slid between an orc’s helmet and its iron collar. Immediately it seemed to Beleg that a surge of power ran up the sword, and his heart raced. He could feel his own blood growing hot in his veins.

Almost against his will, excitement shouted in his head:

 _This_ was fighting.

* * * * *

Túrin hadn’t seen Beleg fighting like this since the summer he had fled Doriath. Here at Bar-en-Danwedh he was too valuable as the healer to be risked regularly in ground combat. But…well, the empty quiver on Beleg’s back told Túrin he had done all the distance fighting he could. Besides, it was good to be working _together_ again, side by side.

After a minute Túrin found himself thrown backwards against a boulder, his sword skidding away across the frozen ground as the breath was knocked from his lungs. An orc had come at him from a side he had not been anticipating and landed a blow on his chest with the spiked end of its axe's handle. Though Túrin’s elven mail had kept the blow from killing him, he was still stunned, and now the orc was on top of him, pressing one knee into his chest as it raised a crooked knife clutched in its hand. But before Túrin even had time to react, the shining tip of an elven blade thrust itself through the breast of the orc’s tunic, stopping only an inch from Túrin’s own chest, and dark blood welled around it before it was withdrawn and the orc’s body fell forward heavily on top of Túrin.

“Sorry!” came Beleg’s voice, and then the orc rolled off of Túrin, and Beleg stood there, his sword in his hand, the blade and his hands both covered in black blood. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Túrin said once he got his breath back. Beleg nodded and looked down at his hands. Túrin knew what was coming, and sure enough, Beleg drew one finger down the center of his face and neck, leaving a dark, glistening line that stretched from his forehead almost to his collarbones, and he did the same for Túrin before pulling him to his feet. The elf’s teeth glinted, framed by the black blood, in a wild grin that Túrin had almost forgotten about.

“That was close,” Beleg said. “I’m glad I was nearby. You need someone to watch your back.” He picked up Túrin’s sword and held the handle towards him.

“I can take care of myself, Beleg.”

Beleg laughed, and his voice rang with the fierce notes Túrin had heard in the oldest and wildest elves of Doriath.

“I’m sure, Neithan. Now come!” He sprang back towards the main skirmish, which had drawn away some distance into the woods, and Túrin followed him.

* * * * *

Andróg had thought that the elves were serene and noble almost to the point of weakness.

Until today.

Midway through the battle, Neithan’s friend had left the trees, his quiver empty. The next time Andróg had seen him, he and Neithan were standing back to back, surrounded by a ring of orc bodies piled three or four deep, and though Andróg had thought that no one could match Neithan’s skill with a sword, he was beginning to suspect that perhaps he was wrong. The elf and the man moved almost as if they shared one mind, always knowing when to turn and when the other was in need of help. The elf’s face was patterned with dark stripes that most definitely hadn’t been there at the beginning of the battle, and Andróg suspected that it was orc blood. He hadn’t thought that elves did that. But then Andróg had seen him, once during the fight, after having received a shallow cut on the side of his neck, laugh and paint a line running down over his cheekbones from the corner of each eye with his own blood.

He was terrifying.

The battle was almost over when Andróg was wounded. An orc buried a knife in his upper arm—his sword-arm at that—and tried to drive a sword into his chest. Andróg managed to knock the sword away, and he grappled with the orc for a moment but in the end he was pinned. Before he could be killed, though, Neithan’s elf appeared, and the blue fire of his sword flared like lightning and the orc fell with a cloven helmet. For a moment the elf’s eyes met Andróg’s, and in them shone an eerie light, faint but unmistakable, much more ancient and fell than any Andróg had seen before. And then he had returned to Neithan’s side, as Algund dragged Andróg a safe distance into the woods.

Andróg remembered a story that he had heard as a child, that orcs had once been elves. He believed it now. For the next several minutes, as Algund did what he could to stem the bleeding of Andróg’s arm, the sounds of fighting continued, but then they slowed, and finally there was silence.

Soon the others came. At Neithan’s side was the elf, his eyes still shining with the energy left unspent after the battle. Andróg pulled away from Algund and tried to hide his arm. He didn’t want the attention of the elf, but it was no use. As the elf held Andróg’s arm to steady it while he examined the knife-wound, Andróg felt the strength in his fingers, and he must have paled because Ulrad, next to Neithan, laughed and leaned in towards the captain.

“I think he is afraid,” he murmured. “He hopes that your friend doesn’t hold grudges, now that he has seen him fighting.”

Andróg wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear the comment, but he glowered at Ulrad.

“If he did hold grudges,” Neithan said, “you would all be dead by now, and that wouldn’t be orc-blood on his face.” Andróg glanced at the elf, and now the grey eyes flashed in amusement.

Andróg decided to avoid ever angering him, just in case.


End file.
